


Luthier

by BowtiesonBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Violinist Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowtiesonBakerStreet/pseuds/BowtiesonBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the few times John analyzes Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luthier

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small drabble I wrote in an attempt to get my creative juices flowing again. The song I imagine Sherlock playing in this is called "Vocalise" by Rachmaninoff. I highly suggest listening to it while reading, as I listened to it while writing this little ficlet.
> 
> As to the title, a Luthier is someone who makes and repairs stringed instruments. I thought it was fitting.

A violin. A simple musical instrument composed of spruce wood, pegs and four strings. In the hands of a novice, it can be an instrument so hideous it could be used as a tool for torture. But in the right hands it can produce wondrous sounds with the power to effect the human condition; to make you laugh or cry, or recall a memory long-since forgotten. In the hands of Sherlock Holmes, it becomes the most beautiful instrument on the face of the earth, or so John Watson thinks. The army doctor sits in his armchair gazing with admiration at the world's only consulting detective as his nimble fingers hover over the neck and strings; his opposite hand holding the bow like a true master of the craft, turning and angling it to produce the perfect notes. His eyes are closed, his movements smooth and purposeful and the melody seems to float gently from the object and into John, resting onto his skin, soaking into his veins, pumping with the beat of his heart, and fusing with his thoughts. He doesn't know the names of these peaks and crests and dips in the music, despite Sherlock's constant babbling about it, but it doesn't seem to matter to John anyway, because even if you put a name to it, it will always sound like _Sherlock_. The notes themselves seem to express the emotions Sherlock Holmes cannot, John imagines them as the sound of his very being; the life and essence of his soul confined, channeled, and put into the universal language of music.

John often finds himself wondering why Sherlock chose the violin of all instruments to learn to play as a child, what is was about the small bit of wood and string that compelled the young Holmes to pick it up and study it's sound and composure long into the nights of his childhood. John smiles a bit at the thought of a young Sherlock fidgeting with the instrument, analyzing every detail of it's making before he even learns where to place his fingers and bow. Not to mention the rest of the Holmes family cringing at the incessant screeching of a beginners first attempts at grand opus'.

Sherlock clutches the violin tighter to him as the emotion increases with each note expertly thrummed through the strings of the instrument. John may not be as keen on the art of deduction as Sherlock is, but as Sherlock falls deeper into the trance of the music he is producing, and the walls he has spent so many years building around himself for protection momentarily crumble, John is finally able to catch a glimpse of the real Sherlock Holmes; what lies beneath the arrogance and smart-alik remarks that seem to be constantly tumbling out of his mouth. He can see a true love and passion for something that is often hard to find in other human beings. John can imagine the lonely nights in school and university where this violin and sheets of music were all Sherlock had in a world where he was deemed nothing but a freak for his intelligence; a concept that baffles him to this day. How can he be the only one to appreciate such a beautiful mind?

John watches as the melody then crescendos, and he closes his eyes, letting the music lift his spirit higher and higher, seeming to entangle with Sherlock's and float around the room entranced by the haunting melody, then slowly bring him down from that musical peak he had been brought to by the simple movement of Sherlock's hands and fingers.

He opens his eyes and locks gazes with his flat mate; beautiful blue eyes fixed on John's hazel pair, then Sherlock gives him that classic twitch-of-the-lips smile he loves so much. And that is when John Watson realizes that he can't imagine life without that magnificent man; without Sherlock Holmes, and it's the first time it makes his heart skip a beat.


End file.
